


The Little Book of Comments

by krikkiter68



Category: Black Books, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Co-Workers, Alcohol Abuse, Flirting, Multi, Sexual thoughts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9382178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krikkiter68/pseuds/krikkiter68
Summary: Malcolm and Jamie want to find a present for Sam.  In something near desperation, they try a little second hand bookshop in Bloomsbury.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've got nothing against mindfulness, books about mindfulness or adult colouring books. I feel though that Malcolm and Jamie would have their own views on all three subjects. (Though I share their frustration about the poetry!)
> 
> Rated M for sexual references and in-character swearing from Malcolm and Jamie.

Malcolm and Jamie stood underneath the awning of Goliath Books, sheltering from the thudding rain. Jamie checked his watch and exhaled nosily.

"Well, that was a fuckin' waste of time," he said, gesturing towards the window, where a pastel-shirted drone was disinfecting the display. "Given their fuckin' size, ye'd think they'd have a huge, fuck-off poetry section, but nah. Just, some Shakespeare sonnets, an' the rest o' their selection was so fuckin' twee! Nothin' but a selection of fuckin' 'inspirational quotes'! Where's the fuckin' Baudelaire, or the Plath, eh? Or the fuckin' Rabbie Burns?!"

"Yeah," Malcolm said, turning up the collar of his black greatcoat, "'an, all that shite about Mindfulness, which appears tae have replaced fuckin' Thinking, an' some adult colouring books."

"Jesus - what?! Who the fuck would want that, eh? Fuckin' colourin'-in?"

"Ben Swain, probably," Malcolm said, gazing out across the grey, picturesque, rain-lashed square. Pub, he thought. Want a fuckin' pub, with a real log fire, very soon.

"'An that fuckin' manager? Scary fucker," Jamie said, wincing. "Blood in his eyes. Did ye clock his expression when ye said we'd try the shop next door?"

"Ye mean, the way his eyelid kept fuckin' twitchin'? Obviously he fuckin' hates it. Ye know what?" Malcolm said, digging his hands further into his coat pockets, "That makes me warm tae it. Come on, let's go in."

The bell clanged as they pushed the door open; it caught on something, and then yielded. Inside, the place was a mess; books lay piled up in five and six feet heaps, or just slumped haphazardly on the shelves. Jamie looked around, clearly delighted by what he saw.

"Fuck me! Looks just like the place I went tae as a student!"

"Oh, aye?" Malcolm said, less than impressed.

"Aye. Those were the days. Fights breakin' out over the last copy of the Haralambos - "

"Jamie, don't be sae fuckin' ridiculous - "

A low, rumbling moan interrupted them, and they both turned. Through the gloom and swirling dust motes, they could see a dark heap slumped across a bottle-strewn desk near the back of the shop. They picked their way carefully through the toppling heaps of books to investigate. As they approached, the heap resolved itself into a snoring mass of black clothing and mussed hair, and finally into a fitfully sleeping man. Malcolm gently prodded the area that looked like a shoulder. The figure immediately reared up, whey-faced, dark hair standing on end, a cigarette still burning between his lips.

"What! What! Wha's goin' on? Are we being attacked?!" he yelled.

"Sorry tae disturb ye. We're lookin' for some poetry. Some William Blake or Emily Dickinson. A present for my PA," Malcolm said.

The man fixed him with a baleful stare.

"Plannin' on committing adultery with her, are you? You disgust me!" he snapped.

"No," Malcolm said, patiently, "she's a valued worker and a dear friend to us both, and fer your information, I'm not married. Would you direct me to the appropriate shelf, please?" Jamie gazed at Malcolm in awe; he could be very polite, sometimes.

"Don't know. Don't. Care. Not my area," the man said. He took a swig of red wine from a nearby opened bottle, wiped his mouth with his dusty black jacket sleeve, and continued. "Jesus, can't you people see I'm really busy here!"

He reached unsteadily for the reception bell, and thumped it until it clanged repeatedly.

"Manny!" he shrieked. "Manny, Manny, Manny! Customers! Worse than that - enthusiasts! C'mon! Chop-chop!"

A long-haired, bearded man in a Paisley shirt, long khaki shorts and sandals emerged from behind a curtain.

"Bernard, will you please stop shouting at - oh, hello, sirs!" he said, noticing Jamie and Malcolm. "How can I help you today?" 

"Yeah, hi," Jamie said. "Fuckin' poetry. You got any?"

The man smiled widely. He had the air of an eager and slightly anxious Labrador puppy.

"Indeed, sir! Poetry, old and new! My name's Manny. Come with me, both of you, in a magical quest...for...poetry." Bernard rolled his eyes. "Do feel free to note down your experience today in our new little book of comments...book," Manny said, gesturing towards the desk.

"I really shouldn't bother," Bernard said, leaning on the slim black volume, lighting another cigarette with a blowtorch and coughing horribly, "it's bound to be completely dreadful. It always is."

Malcolm and Jamie exchanged glances, then followed Manny into the labyrinth.


	2. Chapter 2

The door bell clanged, and a tall, slender, dark-haired woman entered, carrying a sopping-wet umbrella and two bottles of red wine.

"Hello, Bernard," Fran called out, shaking out her umbrella, "do you fancy a couple before lunch?"

"Wha'? Bottles or glasses?" 

"Glasses," Fran said, "let's not go mad."

Bernard scowled at her in disappointment. Fran walked around the curtain to the kitchen, picked up two reasonably clean wine glasses from the sink along with a corkscrew, and then walked back to the desk. She grabbed a nearby rickety chair and sat down opposite Bernard, who set to work uncorking one of the bottles.

"So, your date with weird no-nasal-hair guy. How did it go?" he said, pouring the wine.

Fran ran a hand over her face and sighed.

"Oh God, it was terrible."

"Thought so. Details?" Bernard said, handing her a full glass.

"It started well. We went to the cinema. And halfway through the film, I tried to slip my hand into his, and he ran out of the auditorium screaming that my hand was dirty. Everyone turned and stared at us. It was mortifying."

"I didn't like him," Bernard said, sniffing loudly.

"Yeah, but I kind of did. Oh God, Bernard, am I ever going to get a decent date...oh!" she said, spying Manny gesticulating towards two handsome men. "Who are they?"

"Scottish customers. They came in and interrupted my nap. It was very annoying."

"Scottish, eh?" Fran said, her eyes lighting up. She loved Scottish accents. She took her glass and wandered over. Manny was deep in conversation with the taller one, the other was mulling over a pile of books, picking them up one by one and examining them. Fran undid the top three buttons of her blouse and coughed faintly. He looked up and smiled at her, and her heart flipped over; God, he was handsome!

"Hiya love," he said. "Mind if I browse fer a bit?"

His eyes were huge and blue, like sun-dappled swimming pools. She wanted to dive into them.

"N-no," she said, "do whatever you like. I don't work here."

Her back prickled as she heard a rustling, shuffling, snorting noise, and the sound of a long, scaly tail dragging across the floorboards.

"Oh God," she whimpered.

"Aye," Jamie said, "don't fuckin' move an inch. I'm on it."

He reached down stealthily, and, to Fran's astonishment, retrieved a dagger from inside his right sock. He hurled it with a deadly accuracy. It landed with a squishing thud, and the noise stopped.

"Got it!" he yelled triumphantly. He retrieved the dagger, wiped it on his right trouser leg and slipped it back inside his sock.

"Ye'd be amazed how useful that thing is," he said. "It's got its own strap and sheath."

Fran nodded. God, she thought, he'd look absolutely amazing in a kilt. I bet he's got fantastic calves. She went on to think about how well his face would fit between her thighs, and those wonderful black silky curls, and how she could hang onto them for support, and started feeling warm and giddy.

"I like yer hair, by the way, love. You pull off that style really well, ye've got the high cheekbones for it."

She cackled nervously. He's a bit short, but I bet he's really strong, she thought. Like a compact Heathcliffe. He could pick me up and screw me against that bookcase. I'd end up sticking to it, but it'd be worth it...

Malcolm walked over, accompanied by a beaming Manny, clutching a beautifully-bound pair of books.

"Mission accomplished," he murmured, "Blake and Dickinson located, thanks tae this young fella."

"You're very welcome, sir," Manny said, smiling gratefully.

"Fuck me," Jamie said, examining the books. "They're beautiful. She'll love them."

He craned upwards and gave Malcolm a slow, unmistakably sensual kiss on the mouth. Oh well, Fran thought unhappily. There goes that fantasy.

"Oh, and can I just ask," Manny said, lowering his voice as if he feared being overheard, "did you try out Goliath Books first? Can I ask how they compared to us?"

Jamie snorted.

"That place? It sucked miles of cocks, mate! Just like Ollie Reeder!"

"Allegedly," Malcolm said, smirking.

"Riiiight..." Manny said. It was a backhanded sort of compliment, but a compliment all the same.

 

Jamie wrote a message in The Little Book of Comments, as Bernard, now on his third glass of wine, glared at him with unspeakable hostility. Malcolm took the change from Manny's hand and looked at his watch.

"Ah, mate," he said, "d'ye know any fuckin' good pubs around here, with proper pub fires?"

"Certainly, sir. The Star and Garter's a great one. First turning on the right, you can't miss it."

"Good, thanks. C'mon, Jamie, ya wee fuck," Malcolm said.

Bernard, Fran and Manny watched as the two of them swept out into the rain, the door clanging shut behind them.

"Well, thank God they've gone," Bernard slurred. "They were really loud and annoying. Awful language, too."

"Hmm. They were certainly sweary. But quite polite otherwise," Manny said.

"I thought they were charming," sighed Fran. Bernard snorted.

"Yeah, yeah. I knew you'd fancy them. Manny, would you see what the pixie-sized one scrawled in your precious Little Book of Comments? I can't be bothered to move, and he's probably got terrible handwriting."

"Very well," Manny said, opening the book. "Hmm. 'Good points: the hippy bloke was helpful, seemed a nice guy, found what we wanted.' Oh, that's good to hear! 'The mad lass was entertaining.'"

"Entertaining? That's sweet of him," Fran said.

"'Bad points: that unwashed, drunken, rude arsehole of a manager was a total and utter c - '" Manny's eyes widened as he read the rest of the long message about Bernard in silence. "Wow," he said. "That was certainly...heartfelt and strongly-worded."

Bernard shrugged, causing a puff of dust to rise from his shoulder.

"Whatever it was, I've had worse. I don't care. Manny, go and make me a bacon sandwich. Another glass, Fran?"

The End


End file.
